Page 37 of Rush

I tighten my arms over my chest.

“You’re cute when you’re embarrassed.”

“And you are where you’re not wanted.”

I go to grab the painting out of his hand, but he’s faster, and he holds it out of my reach. Then, I remember…nipples, and I clamp my arms back over my chest.

He’s holding the painting I did of a ballerina a year ago. A teenage girl, facing away, a tutu on and her ballet slippers hanging over her shoulder, and on her feet are a pair of pink Dr. Martens.

I got the inspiration when I saw a teenage girl entering a ballet studio, close to the gallery I used to work at. She was all dressed up in her ballet garb, hair up in a bun, her ballet shoes hanging over her shoulder with bright pink Dr. Martens on her feet.

I thought she looked amazing. Perfectly made up with a hint of the rebel inside of her only visible on her feet.

I went home and worked through the night on that painting. It took me two days. And then I went out and bought myself a pair of pink Dr. Martens. Later that night, I wore them when I went out to a bar with Kyle where I got totally trashed, and he puked on one of my new boots.

We had a fight about it. Then, Kyle took off, leaving me in the middle of a street alone.

I had to walk home, as there were no cabs to be seen. And I scrubbed my boot clean when I got home.

He turned up the next day with flowers, a bottle of wine, and a lame-ass apology. And I forgave him.

“Why did you tell me it was just a hobby?” Ares says. “It’s clearly so much more than just that.”

“Again, none of your business.”

“Did you study art?”

I realize that he’s not going to stop asking questions until I at least give him an answer.

“Yes.”

“You’re incredibly talented.”

“I’m okay,” I say in response.

“Okay?” he repeats, brows furrowing. “So, that’s your thing.”

“What is? Painting?”

“No. Putting yourself down.”

Ah.

I bite my lip, sucking it into my mouth, and turn my eyes from his.

I hear him putting the painting down, and the next thing I know, he’s standing before me, and his fingers are holding my chin, turning my eyes to his.

I stare up at him, holding all my pain inside of me. Pain that is begging to escape.

“You shouldn’t hide your talent away like that,” he says gently.

A dry laugh escapes me. “And why would I have them out on display when all they do is remind me of what I can no longer do?”

Shit.

His brows come together in confusion. “What do you mean?”

Christ. Me and my big mouth.